Profile of a Stalker
by FotoBridgeT2
Summary: Hotch finds a way to deal with the changes in his life...but is it a way he can deal with? H/P, of course. Darker fic.
1. Chapter 1

It started as an accident. He couldn't sleep, the new apartment was nothing like the home he'd shared with Hayley, and though he'd lived there for nearly six months, it wasn't home. He felt like he had no home. Not any more.

So he'd hit the streets, just walking aimlessly up one sidewalk then down the other, not paying much attention to where he went.

And then he'd seen her. Her and her _date, _of all things. He even recognized him, too. The man was an agent with the CIA, one with whom they'd worked a case two weeks earlier. She was having a good time, too. It was in the soft set of her shoulders, in the happy grin on her face. She held the man's hand.

Had he ever seen her that relaxed with another person? Other than Morgan, that was?

He couldn't remember. If he was truthful with himself, he doubted he'd ever looked close enough to see something like that. She'd never really registered on his radar before.

She kissed the man, he tried to deepen it, but she backed away. She wasn't ready for that, he thought. Couldn't the man see that? She bid him farewell, waved a little wave, and started off down the road. It was then that he realized he was only a handful of blocks from her condo.

Still, why was her date letting her walk home alone this late at night? The man was an agent, wasn't he? Didn't he know what could happen to a single, beautiful woman this late at night?

Hotch stepped off the curb, intending to announce his presence. Intending to offer to walk her home. But something stopped him.

It wasn't his place to be concerned with her welfare outside of the BAU. And he knew she wouldn't appreciate it. Not her, not _Miss Independence_. But he couldn't, in all good conscience, _not _make sure she made it home safely.

He kept a good twenty strides behind her. Just watching as she walked the path to her upscale apartment overlooking the Washington Monument. She was dressed more seductively than he'd ever seen and she garnered her fair share of looks. She didn't seem to be aware of it. He knew it just made her more vulnerable.

He'd never thought of her as vulnerable before. He'd also never realized how much attention she _did _garner from men. It was disconcerting that. He'd come to appreciate her mind, of course, in the time she'd been on the team, and it was a phenomenal mind. If it weren't for Reid's presence on the team, she'd probably be considered the extremely smart member of their group. He wondered idly how she felt about that. She crossed the street directly in front of her building, and he paused. No sense in following her that far. He found a park bench and sat down, not needing a break, just not really wanting to return to his barren apartment.

He'd not be able to sleep anyway.

He looked at the building, trying to guess which apartment was hers. 305. He knew that much. He also knew she looked out at the monument that was behind him. So he knew she was on this side. So it was probably…that one right there. Third from the left, three floors up.

As he thought it, the very window he was staring at lit up. A woman was seen silhouetted against the glass. He watched for a little while—nothing else to do with his time. He couldn't see directly into her home, wouldn't have looked if he could, but he knew when she went to bed. Knew how she stood by the window drinking from a mug. He wondered what it was, profiled her just a little bit, before deciding it was hot chocolate. She liked chocolate, and it was a slightly chilly night. It made sense to him.

So it started accidentally, nothing he planned. It just happened. Hotch hadn't really intended to become a stalker. He damned well never intended to stalk Emily Prentiss.

HOTCHTHESTALKER

Hotch developed the habit of walking when he couldn't sleep. He developed the habit of looking for a certain brunette when he walked. He knew when she broke it off with that damned CIA spook, the week after they returned from the New York case. He'd watched, from his now favorite bench across from her apartment, as they held a quick discussion outside her building. He'd wanted to come up, she hadn't wanted him to. He got impatient, pressured her. Hotch's whole body had been tensed, waiting for him to make one wrong move toward her. But she'd handled herself well, and as far as he knew that was the last time she'd seen that man.

She stood at her window for quite a while that night. Hotch hoped that she couldn't see _him. _But he doubted she'd recognize him in his walking clothes—sweats, t-shirt, ball cap. He was just another nameless, faceless person on the streets of the capitol. He liked it that way. She was sad the next few days at work and only he was aware of the reason why. He hated seeing her that way, knew intimately the pain a failed relationship could bring. So he kept her with him throughout the case. He liked to think it helped, but he knew he was just fooling himself. He would never be a comfort to her. But she was a comfort to him. More than he could ever have imagined, or more than she could ever have known, both at work and at night. During his walks.

His hearing wasn't getting any better. The Lower Canaan Ohio case had just illustrated all that for him. He'd spent a good deal of that drive just thinking of things. He'd made a decision _not _to walk to her home anymore. He wasn't stalking her, he told himself, though he knew the truth. He was. And like most stalking victims, she wasn't even aware of it. He made a conscious effort not to walk past her building. But he did walk, he just made sure he walked in the opposite direction. That night was the first since he started doing it that walking didn't help ease his mind.

His resolve lasted two days. Then he found himself right back on that bench outside her building. She wasn't home. Her lights were off. He wondered briefly where she was, who she was with.

He got his answer soon enough, and it soured his stomach to see Morgan kiss her on the cheek. The other man ruffled her hair, she slapped him on the shoulder. Nothing romantic in their actions, he told himself. And the profiler in him knew his observations were correct. But the _man _in him, that man hated Morgan touching her. At all.

But she was happy. He liked seeing her happy. And he knew they were good friends, had been from early on. Probably his fault for always assigning her to work with Morgan. Had he kept her with himself, she might have been waving good-bye to _him _tonight instead of Morgan. Strange thought, that. Did he _want _her that way? Did he want to be the man leaving her at her door? Did he want to be the lucky man she invited to share that spot by the window she favored?

Hotch didn't know.

He walked to that bench every night that week.

Then she and Reid had flown to Colorado on a child abuse consult. Had ended up requesting permission to enter the Septarian compound from the Colorado field office. His heart had stopped after Morgan had yelled for him, after he'd realized just what was going on.

And the day, the night had just gotten worse from there.

After he had them safe and home that first night, after the paperwork was filed, after they were examined and deemed recovering, after it was all said and done—he walked directly to his bench. He needed to watch her window the way she needed to watch out it. This time she didn't stand, just sat. he could see her silhouette as she curled up, her body pressing against the glass. As she cried. And cried. As he imagined he could see the sobs shaking her thin body, his mind replayed each and every sound she'd made as Cyrus was beating her, slamming her into walls, kicking her, slapping her. Throwing her into a glass mirror.

Hotch had never needed to watch her window more than he did that night. He returned the rest of the week to his bench, too. He'd stay long after he suspected she went to bed, just watching her window, proving to himself that she was still safe, that Cyrus hadn't taken her from him.

He knew it was true. He was a stalker, and as he sat there his mind reviewed everything he knew about stalkers and their victims. Stalkers and there victims were generally in their thirties and forties—that fit with him and Prentiss. No history of drug abuse or any other criminal behaviors, so that _didn't _fit them. No personality disorders—on either of their parts. Unless he counted his slight belief that she was a bit on the obsessive-compulsive spectrum. Most stalkers are not psychotic during their stalking incidents. Hotch didn't think he was psychotic. He was starting to develop fantasies—but they were the normal, red-blooded male variety, about an attractive woman he worked with. He didn't think he was becoming obsessed. He wasn't exhibiting the characteristic Meloy's study outlined—he didn't think she loved him, he didn't want to be exactly like her, he didn't think they complemented each other, and he didn't think they shared a common destiny. No, he wasn't a typical stalker. Like most stalkers, though, he was of high intelligence. And he was damned good at planning strategies, just like many stalkers.

So no, the profile of a stalker didn't fit him exactly. He took some reassurance from that. He wasn't stalking Emily. He just happened to prefer to sit outside her building and think. A lot. And if he sat out there until nearly one or two a.m. before heading home, there was nothing wrong with it. He just couldn't sleep.

Watching her helped him relax. Then he'd walk home, fall into bed, and dream about her. About her walking with him. About her holding _his _hand. Kissing _his _cheek.

Hotch's beeper sounded, and he looked down, seeing JJ's number reflected. He looked back up in time to see Emily's window suddenly lit. It was a case, and apparently JJ was calling in the rest of the troops. Including Emily. It would be her first case since Colorado, and he was anxious to see her. To make sure the bruises were completely gone. He needed to stand next to her, to touch her, to see her smile. Even if it was at someone else. A friend, another co-worker. Reid, Rossi—even Morgan. He wanted it to be him, though. And he hoped it would be him.

As he stood from the bench, sending his last glance to her now lit window, he realized the truth.

He was stalking Emily Prentiss, and he had no intention of stopping any time soon.


	2. Chapter 2

She caught him ten days after the Cyrus case. He'd been on his bench for nearly an hour, just sitting there, not feeling the light rain as it poured down the back of his neck. His ball cap was soaked, his clothes were soaked. But he didn't care, all that mattered to him was that _she _wasn't where she was supposed to be.

He pulled the cap off his head, used his forearm to wipe the cool rain off his forehead. October rains were notoriously cold. He shivered, but didn't move to stand. He wasn't going anywhere. Not until he knew she was back where she belonged.

"Hotch?" A soft voice said, filled with surprise, from behind him. "What are you doing here?"

He spun to see the object of his obsession standing behind him. She was dressed in jeans, just regular, plain old Levi's. It surprised him that she even owned a pair. "Prentiss."

"What's wrong, is there a case?" Worry tinged her tone and she unconsciously stepped closer. Only her umbrella stopped them from possibly touching. He cursed that umbrella.

"Uh, no. I was just…" He straightened, stood to face her fully. "I couldn't sleep so I went for a walk. Ended up here."

"Outside my apartment? I didn't realize you lived that close." He heard no nerves in her words. Just basic surprise. She didn't know, didn't realize he'd been sitting outside her apartment nearly every night for the past three months. Didn't know he'd watched her so closely, for so long.

"I moved into a place about seven blocks from here. Eight months ago. After I signed the divorce papers." He told her, moving just a bit closer. She wore a tight sweater, under a dark windbreaker. He could vaguely see just a shadow of cleavage in the street light. He wondered if she realized how good she looked, all casual, walking in the rain. "What are _you _doing out so late?"

"Late? Oh. Volunteer work. A local children's home has a Halloween get together every year. I was drafted to help with face painting." She held up a hand, showing him the variety of paint stains on her delicate fingers. "I stayed to help clean up."

"You really shouldn't stay out this late. Or at least take a cab." He chided, wondering briefly if she realized his words were more those of a lover than a supervisor.

"Don't worry. I have my weapon. And I stay to well lit paths, sir." She smiled. "Would you like to come in? I can offer some dry clothes and some hot chocolate. Or Decaff coffee if you'd prefer."

She liked chocolate. Loved it. That's what she'd said in Golconda. He bet she'd taste like chocolate, too. Probably had had some at that party she'd been at. He wanted to find out. "I'd like that. If it's not too much trouble. We do have to work tomorrow."

"It's no trouble. I'm wired. Probably be up for a while anyway. And you need to get warm. We can't afford for _you _to get sick." She led him up the stairs, to the door to her apartment. He followed obediently.

His stomach was tight in anticipation. He'd been to her place before, but never had she _led _him in. and it hadn't been for a personal reason that time. But this was different. She was letting him in to her home like she hadn't that damned CIA spook. The Morgan had never been inside. Just him.

That thought turned him on, had him harder than steel. He just hoped his sweats covered that fact, though he knew the soaked cotton probably didn't.

But she didn't seem to be aware, so he breathed a little easier.

"There's a bathroom under the stairs, I'll run up and see if there's any spare clothes in the guest room. I think Morgan left some things here last week."

"Morgan stayed here?" His voice came out husky and she looked at him, puzzled. He covered quickly, coughing into one fist.

"After New York, the shooting of that kid. It was either him or Penelope. And as much as I love her, I hate to be fussed over. And I don't think he wanted to be alone, either." She motioned to the bathroom and he obediently started in that direction. As he closed the door he heard her soft footfalls on the steps. He wondered why he hadn't realized Morgan had been there. Probably because of his own situation after that case. But apparently the other man had slept in the guest room. Not in her room. Not with her.

He was satisfied with that.

She returned quickly, knocked softly on the bathroom door. He opened it a crack, not caring that his chest was showing. He was in good shape, and had nothing to be ashamed about. He smiled when her eyes dropped from his face to his chest. He didn't miss the slight red tinge on her cheeks as she quickly looked away.

It was the first sign he'd had that she wasn't immune to _him. _He took it as all the permission he needed. She was aware of him, it was time she became aware of how he was feeling about _her. _"Thank you, Emily."

"No problem. You want coffee or cocoa?" She asked, looking determinedly away from him. He smiled inwardly, the profiler in him seeing her sudden nerves for what they were.

He wasn't leaving this apartment until she knew of his changing interest. Damn their careers, the BAU, and everyone in it. This was him and her. And he was tired of always watching her, but never getting to be with her.

"Cocoa's fine. If that's what you're having." He knew it was. Just knew that's what she was making for herself. What he suspected she made for herself on a nightly basis.

"Marshmallows?"

"Of course." He told her. "Aren't they a requisite of hot chocolate?"

She smiled, and he closed the bathroom door. he needed a few minutes to strategize.

He was going to have her by the time he walked out of this condo in the morning. Hotch wasn't going anywhere, unless it was upstairs to her bed.

HOTCHTHELOVER

He handed her his clothes, neatly folded, though soaking wet. She placed them in the dryer while he took the hand towel she'd given him and wiped up his tracks from her gleaming floors. Her apartment confirmed his suspicion of OCD. He watched as she bent over, opening the driver door. She really had a trim body, and he admitted to himself that was sexy as hell. And jeans did wonderful things for her.

"Chocolate's on the counter." She told him, and he occupied his hands with the warm mug instead of the warm woman he wanted.

"Thanks. For the clothes, too." He told her. The clothes had ATF printed on the front, and down one leg, proving they were, in fact, Morgan's.

"You're welcome." She moved to take the free barstool beside him, then sipped from her own mug. "So why were you unable to sleep?"

"Hmm?" He didn't want to talk about himself, what he wanted to do was taste that drop of chocolate clinging to her lips. he moved a bit closer. "Insomnia. Cases. Jack."

"I understand. Nightmares are a bitch, aren't they?" She looked away, then.

"Yes. You been having them?" He casually dropped one hand to cover hers where it rested on the counter.

"Some. Nothing I can't deal with." She always had to be so strong, he knew that. But she didn't pull her hand back.

"I know." Hotch pulled her hand closer, squeezed, tucked it against his hip. He didn't miss the surprise in her dark eyes. But he didn't let her hand go. Not even when she pulled on it just a bit. He held tight. He was enjoying the feel of the small, soft hand in his grasp.

"Hotch?"

"Hmm? Is everything ok?" Her eyes had narrowed on his face, and he wondered if what he felt was written in his own expression. "You seem different. Intent on something."

"Am I?" He murmured, then took another sip of his hot cocoa. "How so?"

"I don't know. Just different. More intense, determined. Like you're hunting something, someone."

"Who?" He narrowed his eyes on her face, her lips. he watched, satisfied as she wetted them quickly. The move was unconscious, and he knew that on some level, _she _was aware of what he was wanting from her.

She didn't move away. He took that as a good sign. "I don't know. It's…disconcerting."

"Frightening?" He lowered his voice, as he moved closer, slipping off the barstool to stand right next to her. He was violently pleased to feel her body tense as he moved ever closer. "I'm not scaring you, am I?"

"I don't know. Maybe a little." She admitted, and he was once again struck by how she was always honest, almost to a fault, with him. He knew she valued the truth above all else. He had to respect that.

"I won't apologize." He told her, hand finally releasing hers. He moved both hands to rest beside her thighs, to grip the edge of her seat, trapping her before him. "Would it frighten you to know I've been thinking about you a lot lately?"

"Depends." Her voice came out husky, sexy, and he narrowed his eyes even more. He looked into her darker ones, searching for an indication of how she was feeling. Heat warred with a touch of fear, of caution. He'd soon erase that from her mind. "How have you been thinking of me?"

"How do you think a man thinks about a woman like you?" He countered her question with one of his own, as he stepped forward, leaning into her. "I've watched you for a while now, you know. I've seen you with Morgan, with Rossi, even with Reid. You touch them, you know. Casual, careless little touches. I can't help but wonder why you don't touch _me _like that."

"I, uh, didn't think you'd want me to." Her words came out broken, she leaned back a bit. He spun her barstool quickly, putting the back of it to the island behind her. He didn't want her chair tipping dangerously when he leaned in for what he wanted. "You never went out of your way to prove otherwise."

This was not what he'd planned while in her bathroom changing into another man's clothes. This was moving much quicker than he'd strategized. He couldn't help but be glad. Hotch was, at heart, a very _impatient _man. "Oh, I want it, Emily. Have wanted it for months, now. Let me prove it."

(_Wow, Hotch is being NAUT-TAY. One more chapter to go—I think—and I'll give you one guess as to what they do……..)_


	3. Chapter 3

He didn't hesitate, just dropped his lips to hers. He tasted her gasp, mingling with the chocolate. He took advantage of her open lips and kissed her as surely as he could.

He glorified in the deep moan she released, in the way her hands rose to fist in the material of Morgan's shirt. But it was him inside that shirt, him she was kissing as ardently as he was kissing her. Hotch pulled her legs up, using the barstool as a prop to help her wrap those long, long legs around his waist. This time, he gave no thought to hiding how she'd turned him on. Just thrust his hips forward, letting her feel full-on what she'd managed to do to him.

Then he had his hands under her ass, pulling her out of that chair and carrying her through her own living room, toward the cream couch. The window blinds were opened, and though she'd not turned the lights on in her living room, the glow of the streetlights and the Monument behind her apartment, illuminated both of them more than adequately.

She wasn't protesting, he realized, thrilled to the core. She was watching him, just a touch of apprehension still visible in those dark eyes. "Emily. God, I want this. Please tell me you do, too."

He didn't give her a chance to answer, half afraid she'd tell him she didn't. instead he crouched over her, slipping her back against the arm of the couch. She still didn't pull away, and as her hands slid over his shoulders he realized something important—she was pulling him _closer. _She wanted it, too. He fisted one hand in her hair, ran the other down her side, feeling each ridge and thread of that dark blue sweater clinging to her body. She tasted so sweet, so perfect. He kissed deeper. Then it was he who was moaning.

One of his knees slid between hers, then up, farther. Then he was pressing against the vee of her legs, against the denim separating them.

He didn't stop to think, to consider that he may be rushing things a bit. It had been too long, and it had never been like this. He wanted her more than he'd _ever _wanted anything in his life. His hands slid to the snap of her jeans.

She tensed, just enough to let him know she wasn't quite that ready, yet.

Hotch backed off. He was always one of those people who needed goals to work toward. That would be his goal. Getting those denims off of her.

He never stopped kissing her, running his tongue over her lips, sucking her bottom lip into his mouth. Then his tongue was running over her teeth, darting in to tease her own. She never protested, just teased him back.

He took that as a good sign. He finally pulled back, but lowered his head again after taking a deep breath, taking in the scent of warm Emily and hot chocolate that clung to her. He nuzzled against her neck, placing soft little kisses alternating with quick little nips over the smooth, silky skin. Then he nipped her earlobe. Laughed when she squealed. Did it again, then slid over to her mouth to catch her giggle.

His hand moved to the front of her sweater, slowly, but with sureness. He was ready to touch her, anywhere, somewhere. Just to touch her. Her breath caught, but she didn't pull away. He cupped her, squeezed lightly. Pulled back to check her expression. Her eyes had closed, and there was a flush of sexual heat on her cheeks. He moved back, wanting nothing more than to take thing to that next level.

His hands gripped the bottom hem of her sweater, and slowly lifted it. She didn't protest _this. _Actually leaned forward to let him slip the garment over her head. Then she was before him in nothing but a dark bra. It wasn't a practical bra either. It was delicate, lacy, and he didn't see how the minimal material could possibly adequately fulfill the role it had been designed to. This piece of lace was nothing like the practical woman it embraced, and Hotch found that irresistibly sexy.

He trailed one finger over the bra, and the sensitive skin beneath. She shivered. He smiled. "Emily, you are more beautiful than I even imagined."

If possible, her cheeks got even more flushed. "Hotch? What are we doing? Are you sure we should—"

"Shh. Sweetheart." He spoke the words as he leaned back down, then covered her mouth, not letting her protest again. He did a thorough job of distracting her from her inhibitions. He pulled back for a moment, just long enough to pull that damned t-shirt over his head.

He wanted to feel her skin pressed against his, and he soon did. The bra went the same direction as the shirt and sweater. He cupped her again, squeezed a little harder, then grabbed the tip. She moaned, deep and low. He thrust his hips against her, once, twice, more, simulating what he wanted to do to her. If she'd just let him.

Her hands weren't still, either. They ran over his shoulders, over the slight hair covering his chest. Touched his own nipples. Her fingers then fisted in his hair, pulling him down closer, pulling him to her for a deep kiss. Then dropping to his sides, his back, where she pulled his hips in line with hers. They were both moaning, flushed with the sweat of sex and desire.

She bit him, right over his heart, and instead of hurting him, it heated him. He returned the gesture, only he bit soft, female skin, then soothed it by sucking deeply. She arched, and he laughed. "You like that, you like it a bit more rough, don't you, Emily?"

He complied, moving to her other shoulder, biting quickly. He pulled her leg up higher, wrapped it and its partner a bit farther north up his back. The only thing separating him from what he really wanted was those damned jeans and the thin material of his sweats. "Emily, sweetheart, can I?"

He didn't finish the question, just lifted his hand to hover over the snap of her jeans. She took a deep breath, and then nodded slowly, deliberately.

He knew then she was as much into this as he was. His fingers made short work of the button, but the zipper took him a bit longer than he liked. Then his fingers were hooked into each side and he was sliding the worn denims over her hips, then stepping back to pull them free. He looked down at her, seeing that the panties—what there were of them—matched that bra.

She was before him in nothing but a small scrap of dark lace. Her hair was tangled from _his _fingers, her lips swollen from _his _kisses, and it was the best Hotch had felt in a long time. He hooked his hands in the band of his own pants and slid them off hurriedly.

He now wore only a pair of navy boxer briefs.

But he didn't want to rush things, so he left them on. Left her panties on, too. But he resumed his original position, leaning back down to kiss her again. His hands weren't any more still than hers, as they touched and groped and fondled each other.

_Her _hand was the first to go below the waist, the first to dip into a pair of underwear to touch skin beneath. Then it was he who was moaning. Her hand cupped him, surely and skilled, touching all the right spots. "God, sweetheart."

She laughed, a low, wicked sound he'd always associate with that moment. He dropped down to catch the tail end of that laugh with his lips as his own hand traveled south of her navel. Her skin was smooth, taut, softer than he'd ever expected a woman's skin could be. Then he was beneath that scrap of lace touching her more intimately than he'd ever imagined touching a subordinate.

But she wasn't his subordinate then, she was his lover. It took him scant seconds to remove those panties and his own briefs. Scant moments to pull her down further on the couch, to make access just a bit easier for him. There was nothing between them, not even protection, and he paused for a moment. "Emily?"

"Don't worry. Shot, every three months, I'm good." Her words were harried, her hands pulling him in just a bit closer; her entire body was giving him an unstated order. He complied, feeling her surrounding him with one motion of his hips. They both moaned. Her breath stuttered, he smiled.

They just froze for a moment, both of them enjoying that first feeling of that most intimate of contacts. She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen—save for the newborn face of his son—and he reveled that she was with a man like _him. _A damaged, broken, cold, secretive, bitter man had won her attention. He couldn't fathom it, not in that moment. "God Emily!"

"Hotch, please!" Her hips began to move, begging him to echo the gestures and he gave in. They soon developed a rhythm of their own, the sounds hot and carnal, as they loved right there on her couch.

He lay there with her several long minutes later, bitterly wishing it wasn't over so soon. But it was. And he had to deal with the reality of his actions. The reality of what he wanted from her. He wasn't ready for more than what they'd just done, and he hated that he'd have to tell her that. Soon.

"Hotch?" Her voice was soft, hesitant, and he looked at her, as she lay curled on his chest.

"Yes, sweetheart?" He ran a lazy hand down her back, once more marveling at how smooth her skin felt beneath his fingers. "What is it?"

"That's my question, too. I didn't mean for this to happen. Never thought it would. Not sure that I want it to happen again." Once again he was struck by her honesty, even in difficult situations.

"I know. I feel the same way." He told her; he shifted, pulled her tighter to him, dropped a kiss on her mouth. She didn't resist. "But we have tonight, let's just enjoy that before we have to be at work tomorrow."

"Tonight, only." She said, and he couldn't tell if that was a question or a statement.

"One night at a time." Hotch said, hoping that this had finally put to rest the desire he had to walk to her every night. The need to have her with him, beneath him, loving him, belonging to him.

But Hotch knew the truth—he'd never stop needing those things. Ever.

It would just take him a while to convince her she needed them, too.


End file.
